


The Key to a Loveless Heart

by Somber_Resplendence



Category: Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - Victor Hugo
Genre: Dark, Drama, F/M, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 01:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5112044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somber_Resplendence/pseuds/Somber_Resplendence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He held the key to a loveless heart, and she'll hold him in her sweetest pain and suffering. My own, personal re-telling of Dom Claude Frollo & La Esmeralda, from the original Victor Hugo story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Key to a Loveless Heart

_He held the key to a loveless heart,_

_And she held him in her sweetest pain and suffering._

A shadow lurks in the darkness. She can feel the ominous man, hear his timorous breathing, and see his lewd thoughts soaring through his aching mind. She cowers away from him, this presence blacker than the Dark Lord of Hell, and hides her small body within the shadows of her tomb. However, the gentle rattling of the heavy shackles which bind her wrists and ankles stir him, and like a striking serpent, sensing the miniscule vibrations of the clanking metal, he turns her way and lunges.

"Begone!" she cries, thrusting her arms into the darkness in warning, but her small hands do not find him, and she trembles at the thought of falling into the arms of delusion, though the thought is not delusional, for she had been kept away from the day, from the light, from life. She had been imprisoned for crimes she hadn't known, and in the darkness of her cell she will wait until her body and her bones decay and fall beneath the dirt, adhering to the foundation of the Abyss she has come to know so well.

He sighs, and she shudders.

"I have come to relieve thee of death."

"Begone," she says, "Begone from here—this place darker than Hell."

 _Hell._ The word sends a jolt through his body, a throbbing pain, and he clasps the crucifix dangling from the rosary which strangles his frail wrist.

"I shan't," he says, summoning a dark voice from the pits of his body as if to frighten the girl with his strength. But he hasn't any strength left, for she had drained him, left him indefensibly withered. And in desperation, placing a trembling hand upon his chest, upon that neglected scar beneath his cassock which sends a surge of pain throughout his body, he wallows in his weakness and begs for mercy,

"Dost thou not know of the blazing heat within?—the summer's sunlight which scorches my heart and leaves my flesh smoldering, for thou has cursed me and left me yearning."

She snarls, rejects his pleas, and turns away from him, "Thou art a phantom—a demon sent from the Dark Lord to torment me and punish me for sin I dost not know."

"Nay," he protests, offended by her statement, "I dost not consult with the darkness."

"This is darkness, Priest," she says, eyes still straining to adjust to the shadows that consume her. " _I am darkness._ Leave me be—torment me no longer."

"Thou dost not know torment—"

"Blasphemy!" she cries, the shackles rattling upon her fierce movements, for she had known torment, befriended it, and fell to her hands and knees before it.

"Silence!" the Priest orders, "Thou shall not interrupt me." He flicks his hand towards her, the rosary snapping and falling to the floor. "Thou dost not know torment as I. Thou dost not know of the endless ordeal which has plagued me from the first sunrise of January; the desires, the longing, and the yearning for a touch from thee,who gracefully glided upon Paris's ground and whose beauty surpasses that of the Holy Virgin. And, oh, the glee of thine eyes piercing me, gazing upon this blackened soul that clandestinely begs in the darkness of my tomb to be cradled and caressed by thee."

Her chest constricts and her heart convulses, for his words are painful and leave her cold and trembling. And if she could turn blue, relieve herself of life and place her soul in the Reaper's hands before offering it to the infatuated man before her, she would. However, his suffering makes him no less terrorizing; and he seizes her in the midst of her thoughts, those eerie imaginations of slipping away into death in all shades of blue.

She yelps, begs for his mercy, begs for the unforgiving sun to rise and cast its radiant light upon this belligerent man who wrestles with her in the dungeons of Hell. But dawn is far away. Only the empty night will hear her cries, though her voice is exhausted, hoarse, and hardly recognizable beyond the impenetrable door of the dungeons. And he, struggling to contain this hopeless creature in his arms, this woman who had possessed his heart on that faithful day, claws his fingers into her flesh and draws her into his being.

"Be still!" he cries. But she refuses him, struggles in his hold; and in misery, collapses and falls into his arms, this limp body lying before him. And then she breathes. And so does he, relieved that the beauty which had possessed him has not slipped away.

"I am innocent," she says breathlessly with hazy eyes and lips that are too tired to fully part, "But dawn will see my lifeless body dangling from a necklace of twine. And my heart will be no more, my heart which has been pierced by the dagger that pierced his—Phoebus!"

"Nay!" cries the Priest, cringing at the mention of that man, that name—those disheartening syllables which create it. "Do not speak that name, that wicked name which sickens one like cyanide, scorching my flesh, corroding my soul until nothing is left but a sigh and an aching mind."

She whimpers and turns away from him, turns back to the darkness, though his hold upon her never loosens. She shivers and he lifts her limp body, drawing her form into his, and slithers a hand behind her head. And then, delicately, brushes his lips against hers. And she yelps, for his kiss is blistering.

She attempts to turn away from him, tear her lips from his, but at her rejection, small hands pressing against his shoulders, he forces himself upon her.

"Do not deny me Heaven," he gasps, hands desperately reaching out for her and drawing her body close, lips seeking her out in the darkness. He kisses her cheeks, stained with tear streams like that of a dried river, her neck, which will soon be fitted with a noose, and her shoulders, where the weight of Death rests. And she, writhing in his hold in an attempt to end this nightmare, cries out into the night with every burning sensation, every mark he places upon her flesh.

"Forgive me! Forgive me, child!" he cries in between kisses at the sound of her whimpering. And in unreserved fury of being claimed and abused by this man, strength finds her and she scratches him. He yelps, releases her, and lifts his hands to his face, dark blood seeping from between his fingers.

"Have pity on me, child! Pity this fallen man, this servant who begs at your feet!" He trembles, casts his body upon the floor, and reaches for her, desperate to touch her, feel her, and soothe her sorrows.

"Nay!" she cries, withdrawing from him.

"I have come for thee." His every word is stressed as if his life rests solely upon every syllable, "I shall relieve thee of death. I have come for thee!"

"Nay!" She sobs, hiding her face within her hands, those hands he yearns to hold, to adorn kisses upon, and to worship. "Thou hast come to torment me—Begone and let the dawn steal my soul!"

He snickers in refusal, crawls towards her, this servant begging at the altar of forgiveness, and dares to rest his head upon her feet, "But I have come for thee, and Death shall not steal thy soul." His touch is warm as if a fire burns within, and though she refuses him and rejects his unwanted offers, she relishes the warmth in which she had been denied, for life in the dungeons had been unkind and only the cold darkness had known her name.

His hands trail up her feet and past her ankles, fingers roaming her shivering body. And, oh, if she'd let him, he'd gather her in his arms and sell his soul to her, trade places and die at dawn.

And as this tortured man caresses her, his warm flesh heating her core and dispelling the cold that had sought to snatch her, she turns away from him and lifts her eyes to the stone wall beside her. Resting a hand upon it, wondering if the outside lingers beyond, thoughts of freedom cloud her mind: the feeling of the warm sun rays hitting her flesh, the laughter of young children roaming about Paris's streets, and the familiar clanking of armor, Phoebus, walking at her side. She sighs.

"Give me the sun and I shall learn to forgive thee," she says, a glimmer of hope rising in her chest. And he furiously nods, pulling her body into his arms once again. She's reluctant and pulls away from him, and he cries out in one last attempt,

"Be still, my child!"

And she obeys, for he is warm, this distorted reflection of the sun. And though she loathes this man, this phantom, this tormentor from Hell, her eyes grow heavy, arms fall weak as if the shackles that bind her have abruptly grown heavy, and she surrenders to the warmth he offers. Resting her head upon his chest, she listens to the spastic heartbeat within, the heart in which a dagger's point sought to destroy. And he clenches his teeth at the pain of the unhealed wound, the neglected scar beneath his cassock which throbs at her touch.

And she sobs. She sobs for her soldier, that man who held her world in his eyes and the sun in his palm, and she sobs for hope, if it should ever find her. And it has.

"Save me," she whimpers into his chest, her pleas ringing in his ears, sweeter than the toll of Notre-Dame's bells. Carefully, he runs his trembling fingers through her hair, fingers which had once wielded a dagger, plunging the blade into his chest lest he hear her cry out in agony in the executioner's chamber.

"Come with me into the night and let the shadows hide us," he says in a hoarse voice, lifting the girl to her feet, this shivering creature.

She submits, allowing hope to swell in her chest and allowing him to take her chains and lead her; and before the door opens, before the lights of the stars upon this moonless night grace her skin, she asks, "Priest, why dost thou torment me so?"

"I love thee."

* * *

_She held the dagger which stole his life,_

_And all she could do was wail and weep to the saddest poem._

A hooded figure, the sinful Priest, leads the shivering prisoner down a cobblestone path, and not one soul dares to stop them, no soldier with lips stained with wine from a drunken night orders them to halt, and no curious eyes peer through dark windows. They are completely graced by the shadows of the night.

"Thou art safe with me," says the Priest, leading her into a dark shadow, a crooked building. "Thou shall never fear death again."

"Nay, I fear something far worse," she says, tremulous and frightened, reluctantly withholding from entering the building. "I fear that I may be entering a new prison."

"Nay," he says, tightening his hold upon her. She reassesses and abruptly snatches her hand away from the man who had cried out to God in the midst of many nights, praying that his words would be sufficient enough to stir her heart and lure her into his arms of safety, escaping the noose and drowning in his passion.

"Thou art free here," he says, desperate to reassure her, reaching for her hand. "Thou art free with me."

She refuses, for her body no longer dwells within the darkness of a cell; and under the star lit sky, in the safety of Reims, she withdraws from him and dares to find her own path. However, her actions of fleeing the infatuated Priest, which are fueled by her desire to have freedom, are greatly overpowered by his fervor and voracity, and he snatches her like a thief placing his greedy fingers upon a golden goblet.

Priest and convict wrestle in the night. Her screams are dry and her refusal distresses him, pains his aching mind and strikes the throbbing wound upon his chest. She snarls, struggles to release herself from his iron hold, feet kicking, arms flailing. And he silences her, wraps a pale hand over her lips, and manages to contain her, dragging her reluctant form into the dark building.

He yelps. Blood trickles down his knuckles, and her teeth are lined in red. She escapes him, temporarily. Her arms stretch forward, anxious to reach the door which will either damn her heart to the shadows of another prison or liberate her. It does neither.

The Priest reaches for her, tangles his bloodied fingers in her hair, and draws her back into his frail body, into the warmth she once craved in the dungeons. However, the blistering gash upon his hand is unbearable, and he releases her with a whimper, her struggling body falling to the ground. An eerie sound fills his itching ears, like that of a withered branch snapping in two, and his eyes fixate upon a stream of dark blood that trickles down the slope of her forehead.

For a moment he is silent. He is still, motionless like a statue. He watches the girl and ponders her life, for he had sought to save the heathen, yet she lies unresponsive. And then she breathes, and he's home yet again. He sighs, rubbing a hand upon his aching forehead, and gathers the girl in his feeble arms, whisking her body away into the shadows of safety.

She stirs in the bed he has laid her upon. It's small and rather uncomfortable, and her head pounds as if she has been strung upside down for much too long. Groaning, she reaches for her head, fingers rustling her hair, and she clenches her teeth at the immense pain it brings her to dare touch the wound.

A bottle falls over, glass rolling against uneven stone flooring, and she whips her head to the right. It's the Priest, that dark and familiar shadow, that shallow breathing she has heard many times before in the midst of her thoughts, in the darkness of the night, in the unholy depths of the dungeons.

"Thou hast taken me to Hell," she says.

A candle falls over, the light thud catching her ears, and she whips her head to the left. He's a rather clumsy thing.

"Rest, child," he says in a faint whisper—one that enters sleeping ears, teasing their dreams and lulling their hearts. But it's anything but calm and docile to her.

She groans, "Nay, I shan't stay here." Rising from the bed, only to stumble forward upon numb feet like a babe learning to walk, she collapses. Her fingers grip his cassock as she stumbles into his outstretched arms, his hands grasping her shoulders and stabling her. He holds her, braces her fall; and she does not move away from him, this warmth she has fallen into. She slumps into him and remains motionless in his embrace, for she is weak and unable to stand. And perhaps she wishes to remain within him, to remain in the blissful memory of a fair haired man holding her in his arms—Phoebus.

"Thou smell of wine," she says, deeply inhaling and nuzzling her face into his chest, into that wound that makes him cringe in agony, reminding him of the torment she had put him through. And though he longs for her nimble fingers to remove his cassock, expose his flesh and his sufferings, and to grace his scar with her lips, this angel whose heart he craves, he quickly loses hope and withdraws into indifference at her small utterance, "Phoebus."

"Why dost thou smell of wine?" she asks, gripping him and drowning in the scent. He holds his breath, reminds himself that she is imagining him to be anything than what he truly is. And he damns her for it. However, cloaked in fear, loathing, and passion, his heart still flutters at her touch, and he wonders if she can hear it, feel it soaring, pounding upon his ribs and begging to leap out and caress her, this beautiful girl atop him.

He lifts a weary hand, the raw gash throbbing, and he brushes timid fingers through her hair. She moans at his touch, imagining it to be the touch of her Sun God, and she tightens her hold upon him and falls into distant memories. But the Priest, a slave at her feet, cannot help to suppress his longing anymore, and in one last attempt to silence the demon within, he speaks,

"Thou must rest lest I surrender to your imaginings of that accursed man."

She sighs, refuses to hear another word, "Am I not resting upon a bed: One that breathes with me and protects me? One that. . ." She trails off, those beautiful words never reaching his ears. And in this moment they share, Priest and convict upon the floor of safety, he questions the sleeping girl as his heart vigorously pounds at the desirable yet unholy thought of waking her and claiming her as his own. Nevertheless, he claims her lips. And until the next sunrise, it is all she can feel, his lips. They leave her shuddering, for it is all she can fathom, that burning sensation, that foul contamination that is not Phoebus.

And when dawn sheds light upon them both, these two bodies sprawled upon the floor; she wakes, scurries away from him, and seeks escape. It is short lived.

"Where art thou going?" he asks, bringing the girl to a halt, her fingers trembling as they rest upon the edge of a window.

"Thou art heedless of the kindness of sunlight, Priest," she says, fury brewing within her chest.

"Thou shalt not argue!"

"Nay! Thou promised me freedom, sunlight, life! Thou lied!" She points a finger at him, and humiliation washes over him.

"Ah—it is not enough," he says, gesturing towards the room in which they occupy: a sufficient bed lying in the corner, a wash basin atop a wooden stand, suitable clothes filling a chest, and a window that overlooks Reims, the delicious scent of hot rolls entering and enticing them both.

"Let me taste the sun," she says, desperate to move his heart, for time in the dungeons had robbed her of such freedoms and time in the makeshift home she shares with the brooding Priest is no different if not worse. "Let me feel its warmth lest I leave here and never return." Her threat rips him apart and leaves him with a gaping hole where the coldest of winds roll through him.

"Nay," he says, "Thou shall stay here. Thou will be safe."

But she has no trust in his words, and at night she evades him through the lose window pane and scampers about the desolate streets. The light of the moon guides her weary feet as she seeks freedom, that tantalizing virtue which envelopes her and whispers promises of life into her desperate ears. And then something sweet ensnares her heart, something that is longed for in the night and missed in the day—his voice.

"Phoebus!" she cries, running to the shadow of a man who had once led her to the back streets of Paris to steal a kiss in the dark.

"Stay back, fiend!" he cries, "Come here not! Begone!" He waves his hand at her as if she's a pestering stray begging for food, this raggedy, dingy creature, no longer a woman of desire, but a regrettable reminder of torment.

"Phoebus!" she cries, "Hast thou forgotten me?—Forgotten Paris? Recall those days of love, of whispers shared in the light of day, kisses given in the heat of summer. Were they not as true as the rain is true to the soil which craves it?"

"I know thee not!" he says, quickly withdrawing from her lest she cause him grief and drag him back to the tormenting pain of a dagger's point piercing his body. "Begone I say! Begone from here!" He outstretches an arm, a lone finger pointing to the void space that separates them, demanding that she return to the darkened world in which she came. And she can hardly bear it.

She nears him, shaken hands rising to calm the situation in which they drown in, but he sneers, refuses to be touched by her, this troublesome woman, and he escapes into the night. She watches, remains still, faint echoes of conversations ringing in her ears, his voice forever gone. Then she remembers to breathe, inhales deeply, the expansion of her torso striking pain within her. It's diabolical, the feeling of unrequited love. And she whimpers.

A black bird flutters in the sky and lands upon her shoulder, Betrayal, and it hisses in her ear and mocks her. Ashamed, she withdraws into the dark shadows of towering, nearby buildings and yearns to rid herself from life, yearns for the rope of twine she had been promised in Paris, for a life without Phoebus, a life without a soul to claim and share intimate feelings with, without a beating heart to surrender to at night and caress in the day, is not a life at all.

Her hope shatters into countless pieces, smaller than fragments, unable to ever be forged together again. And as the pieces lie upon the floor, they rumble about to the vibrations surging through the ground. Dark figures patrol the streets, their heavy footsteps shaking Reims and stirring her irrepressible thoughts. Muffled voices haunt her, her name slipping through their stern, dry lips, harsh shadows from their lowered visors hiding their faces. And she remembers the words of the Priest, _Thou shall stay here. Thou will be safe._ But the night has grown darker and her senses have left her with nothing but the immense fear of being captured and dragged back to the darkness of an unforgiving cell.

"Befriend me, Pandemonium," she whispers, "for he loves me no more, and my home is far from this place."

The night carries on, endless as it seems, but soon the sun rises and she basks in its beauty and warmth: warmth, like that of a hug from a dear friend, a chaste kiss from a lover, or awe from faithful admirers. She remembers him, the Priest, odd and mysterious; he was the only giver of warmth. And she longs for it, for soon the sun will sink back into the horizon and she will be left alone with sinister, murmuring voices of cold, armored soldiers who seek her soul, a soul she now dreams of keeping as long as her wounds are able to heal.

And she returns to him, seeks out that crooked building.

"It is not enough," says the Priest from within the building, eyes scanning the streets below, mind racing with thoughts, wondering if she will ever return. A shaking hand traces Biblical verses into the fog that smothers the window in which she had escaped the night before:

_Vulnerasti cor meum, soror mea, sponsa;_

_Vulnerasti cor meum in uno oculorum tuorum,_

_et in uno crine colli tui._

_. . ._

_Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse;_

_thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes,_

_with one chain of thy neck._

He grips his cassock, fingers grazing upon a wound underneath. And he agonizes over the thought of never seeing the beautiful gypsy girl again. He wallows in despair, torturing his aching mind with visions of her fingers entwined with another's, a lover; dares to wonder what can be worse, a lover embracing her and leading her to his bed, or the executioner leading her to the gibbet.

He nearly chokes upon the impure thoughts, gasps for air, and finds that the feeling of being strangled is no different than striving to earn her affections, strangled by her refutation. And though he had more than often tantalized his soul with beautiful yet unholy thoughts of the girl beckoning him into her arms, he hangs his head and recalls her words of freedom. Regret gnaws at his heart: if only he had let her have the sun, given her what she craved, she'd have never escaped. However, he also drowns in the imaginings of what could have blossomed between them had she stayed. Nevertheless, he blames his stubborn heart.

"Oh, but it will never be enough," he says, "I am but dirt beneath her feet, her dancing feet that trample upon my mind and leave me numb."

And he soon craves his own freedom, and he begs for liberation from her taunting form, from the regret, the betrayal, and the loathing he succumbs to in her absence.

"The angel, all I ever yearned for, has left me. Never again shall her presence grace my soul, this soul which longs for her heart, this soul which would joyfully take her place, creep beneath Lucifer's claw for one last kiss, this soul which will forever more sing her song, worship her form. Oh, God have mercy on me for what I am to do! Have mercy. Oh, God! Sing my sorrows so that I may never be forgotten, though she has forgotten me."

The darkened building, crooked in appearance and ominous to venture near, beckons her to draw close should she request the warmth of the tortured man who lingers inside. And she does. She opens the door that she had once imagined to be the gates to Hell, and she peers into the room she had once been carried into by the arms of a troubled Priest, a gash upon her head distressing his mind. However, as her eyes trail up the contorted body that lies upon the floor in a pool of blood, a shimmering dagger clutched in a wounded hand, she stifles a scream and soon her own mind is distressed.

Standing still before the grotesque scene, she becomes deathly silent; only her shallow breathing can be heard. The sunlight pours in through the window and illuminates foreign words, their shadow falling upon the body of the man who wrote them with a trembling finger. And like a phantom gracing the dark halls of an abandoned home, she glides to the window, careful not to disturb the pool of blood that slowly eases towards her feet. For a long moment, she stands before the glass, motionless and silent, not a thought in her mind. She reaches for them, those words, silently traces them, and mouths what she doesn't understand:

_Averte oculos tuos a me,_

_Quia ipsi me avolare fecerunt._

_. . ._

_Turn away thine eyes from me,_

_for they have overcome me._

Tears swell in her eyes for the first time since she had been convicted of a crime in Paris in which she had no knowledge of, because she had felt the pain of unrequited love from a man she had once deemed gallant; and though she had yearned for him to return her affections, she had simultaneously rejected the deep affections of another—one who had been willingly to risk his life in order to lead her to safety, one who had been willing to sell his soul to the Reaper if necessary, one who she now longed to see alive yet again.


End file.
